DISCLAIMER: These characters are not mine. They are Showtime's. I am poor, and this isn't making me any richer. Please don't sue.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
SPOILERS: Lude Awakening/Dead in the Nethers

You're taken aback. "Seriously?" You already know that she's serious, but you need to stall. You've never really thought about it.

"Yes."

You take her in for a long moment, pensive. "Mostly," you answer, and it's the truth.

She smiles a wry, inebriated smile, and wanders off to the bathroom. You sit for a minute, hand pressed against your forehead, and the hint of a smile creeps over your lips. And then, for whatever reason, you decide to follow her.

Good thing, too, because the first thing you see when you approach the door is Celia standing with her shirt open, breasts exposed. The second thing you see is your teenage son staring at them, eyes wide with a mix of reverence and shock. You tell him to go to his room. Then you approach her, slowly.

She can tell you're annoyed, but she doesn't apologize. "I just wanted to show them to someone who would appreciate them," she says, as if it were a perfectly logical excuse.

You don't stop moving forward until you're obscenely close to her, perhaps because you think the proximity will add a hint of menace when you tell her that, cancer or not, it is not ok for her to flash her tits at your kid. It doesn't, though, because you're really not as upset about it as you think you probably should be. Maybe that's because you understand Celia. Maybe because, after seeing the aforementioned tits, you understand why she would regard their loss as "a fucking tragedy." Maybe it's a little of both. It doesn't really matter, though.

Your hands are at her chest, helping her button up her blouse, and you can't help but flash back to the last time you were this close to a woman. It's been over a decade since that night in college when you'd both had a little too much to drink at what's-his-name's art show, but you recall quite clearly that you had been performing the opposite motion then

You're jarred from your thoughts by Celia's sharp intake of breath, and you realize that your hand has been grazing her nipple through the fabric. You look up at her, startled, and start to apologize, but the words die on your lips. There's an unfamiliar look on Celia's faceeyes narrow, lips pursed. It's close to the defiant, challenging look she gets when one of the other PTA moms has the audacity to disagree with one of her pronouncements, but it is definitely not the same.

"Were you really the best she'd ever had?" she asks. The challenging look is still there, but now her bottom lip is between her teeth.

And, suddenly, you realize that you are in a bathroom. With the door open. With your children only a few meters away.

"We are not having this conversation now," you snap.

"I was just asking! You can't just drop a bombshell like that and expect a girl not to be a little curious. I mean, who was she? What's the taste like? How"

And you know the conversation that you're not having is not going to die a natural death, so you focus on getting you both to somewhere not in earshot of your boys. You grab her by the wrist and pull her towards your bedroom.

"Hey, Mom?" Shane almost collides with you in the hall. He raises one eyebrow when he looks up from his video camera and notices that you are not alone. "Hi, Mrs. Hodes."

"Hello, Shane."

Not good. "What do you need, honey?" you ask, trying not to sound impatient.

"Do we have any batteries?"

You know all too well that you most certainly do not. "No," you say with a little too much edge in your voice. "I'll buy some when I go to Costco tomorrow." Awkward pause. He's still staring quizzically at you. "Hey, why don't you go watch that hunting show you like so much with Silas? I need to talk with Mrs. Hodes."

He looks unsatisfied, but agrees. You pull Celia into your bedroom and shut the door.

"What the hell was that about?"

She shrugs nonchalantly and sits on your bed. "I'm curious."

"Well, it was a long time ago, and, like I said, it was boring. I was drunk."

"I'm drunk now," she replies, and reclines, resting her head on your pillows. She pauses. "Maybe she wasn't doing it right."

You laugh. "That's dramatic, even for you." You pause. "And I don't need anything."

"Bullshit," she says, snorting. "Everyone needs something. Isabelle needs to lose 20 pounds, Dean needs to stop fucking his tennis coach, and, if your sensitivity about your lack of batteries is any indication, you need to get laid."

"I do not"

"Really?" she interrupts. "When was the last time, Nancy?" You open your mouth to speak, but she adds, "Don't lie. You're a terrible liar."

You sigh again and plop down next to her on the bed, resigned. "Judah."

"That's what I thought."

And just like that her mouth is on yours, and, even though you knew where this was going, you're surprised. You're even more surprised when, instead of pulling away, you deepen the kiss, letting your tongue dart out and taste Celia's.

Before you know it, your hands are pushing her shirt up. Your mouth attaches to a nipple while your fingers work nimbly on the buttons of her jeans. As you brush against her wetness, your mind dimly wanders to thoughts of how incredulous your college self would be if she'd known you'd ever be doing this again.

Then again, your college self would probably be pretty damn incredulous if someone had told her that she'd be a widowed mother of two dealing drugs in suburbia in 15 years. There are some things you just have to take in stride, you think as you slide two fingers into Celia.

After all, you assure yourself, this is just a favor to her. One last hurrah before an uncertain future.

You forget all about those thoughts, though, as you lower your mouth to Celia's clit and lose yourself in a rhythm of licking and stroking and sucking. Celia is much more vocal about her appreciation than the college girl was. She moans loud enough to make you nervous as her hips buck underneath you. Soon enough, she's groaning your name as she comes around your fingers.

You sidle up the bed, not touching her, and wait for her to recover.

When she finally does, she smirks. "Well, I don't know if it's the best I've ever had, but certainly the best head---if it's any consolation."

"Gee, thanks, Celia," you say dryly, although you are a little flattered.

"Welcome." She's far away for a moment before she remarks, "I could use a cigarette."

"I didn't know you smoked."

She looks at you like you're insane. "Well, I could start! Who the fuck would care? I already have cancer."

"Point taken," you reply. "I don't have any cigarettes."

Then something crosses your mind that makes you smile. "Can I interest you in a brownie?"